Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
Chloe
Twelve Weeks Later
We should be getting ready.
Our clothes are still folded at the edge of the bed—my top borrowed from Zac’s drawer, his pants draped over the chair, belt looped through, button undone, forgotten.
But instead of dressing, I’m face-down in the sheets, knees tucked under me, arms stretched out to the headboard. Zac’s hand anchors my hip; the other’s tangled in my hair, keeping me where he wants me as he drives into me hard and fast and entirely without mercy.
I’m moaning for it.
“Zac,” I gasp. “We’re gonna be late—”
“I said, five more minutes,” he growls. His tone—dark silk and gravel—slides down my spine. “You can take it, little one.”
He pulls back slow, cruelly slow, until I whimper—then slams in again, harder, sending the headboard into the wall. Again. And again.
“You’re always saying we don’t have time,” he mutters, lips grazing my ear. “But your cunt’s calling bullshit.”
“Zac—” My voice breaks on a sob.
He stills just long enough to hiss, “Try again.”
Right. Rules.
“Zaddy,” I rasp, wrecked and breathless.
His groan rips through him. “That’s more like it.”
He grabs my wrists and presses them to the mattress beside my head, fucking me like it’s the only language we speak. Deep, ruthless strokes that pull me apart and rebuild me in the shape of this—of us.
“Fuck,” he hisses, pace faltering. “You’re dripping. Want me to fill you up before we go?”
The words are primal, and I soak them up, my body caving toward his.
“Yes,” I pant. “Please.”
I’m trembling—shaking beneath him, desperate for release. And when it comes, it’s not a climax. It’s a full-body collapse. A surrender.
Seconds later, he follows, cursing, hips jerking, teeth grazing my shoulder as he spills into me. He lowers himself over me, his body molding to mine. The only sounds are our breaths—ragged, uneven—and the thump of his heart against my back.
I smile into the sheets.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder, then another to my spine.
“Now,” he whispers, “we’re really late.”
I roll onto my side, grinning. “I’m telling her it was your fault.”
He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, mouth curling. “Worth it.”
I stretch, lazy and content, and feel him dripping down my thighs. He sees it too and smirks, smug and satisfied.
Totally worth it.
***
We pull into the cemetery, tires crunching over the gravel. Zac kills the engine, but neither of us moves. Through the windshield, the morning light filters across the rows of headstones, making them glow a little. It’s still in a deliberate way. Even the wind knows not to be loud here.
I rest my hand on the door handle, but don’t open it. Zac’s staring straight ahead, unreadable. I give him a moment.
And in the quiet, my mind drifts—twelve weeks back, to the shift from hell.
To the blood, the blade, the bomb.
I made it through my ER rotation. I don’t know if emergency medicine is where I’ll end up, but I got through it.
Took the hits, logged the hours, figured out how to build boundaries and keep myself intact.
I’ll need those skills on Monday when I start pediatrics with Jax.
Thankfully, Sienna got shuffled into a different rotation.
Some nights, I think about Borris. My first loss. He came in with abdominal pain and left zipped up in a bag. It wasn’t only gallstones. It was his heart giving out quietly, without warning. But knowing that doesn’t make it sting any less.
I went to a Russian restaurant last week. Ordered pelmeni in his honor. I knew it wouldn’t taste the way it would if he’d made it—but it felt right. A quiet toast to someone I only knew for a few minutes and still think about more than I should.
Zac found his way back to surgery. Back to the OR where he belongs.
He needed the ER first—to fall apart, to remember who he is when the noise dies down and to put him back together again.
But above all, to be the surgeon he used to be—only better.
He’s not the same man who walked into that trauma room months ago. He’s more… whole.
I take a breath, push the door open, and step out into the morning air.
The grass is damp under our shoes, the air crisp with eucalyptus, cut lawn, and wet earth. Kind of peaceful, actually.
We walk between rows of marble, hand in hand. Zac carries the bouquet—jasmine, deep pink gardenias, and a stem of freesia I tucked in before we left. They’re not traditional. But they feel right.
We stop in front of her grave. He doesn’t speak—just hands me the flowers.
I crouch.
CASEY LYNN BENNETT
BELOVED WIFE, DAUGHTER, AND FRIEND.
LOVE FIERCELY. LOVE WELL.
The lettering is simple. Elegant. True to what I imagine of her, if Zac’s stories are anything to go by.
I brush a brittle leaf off the edge of the stone.
“Hi, Casey. It’s good to finally meet you.”
Zac stands behind me. His warm hand settles on my shoulder.
“I didn’t know you,” I say, “but I’ve gotten to know your husband. And I wanted to say thank you. For loving him. For shaping him. For holding a space in his heart until he was ready again.”
Zac makes a quiet sound behind me. I glance back—his eyes are glassy. He crouches beside me, and together we place the flowers on her grave.
We don’t speak. The silence says enough.
Zac reaches for my hand, his fingers wrapping around mine. His thumb moves in slow, thoughtful circles over my skin.
“I don’t feel bad,” I murmur.
He glances at me. “For what?”
“For showing up like this… with your cum soaked into my panties.”
Zac blinks.
Then he laughs—startled and helpless. It breaks across him like light.
“She’d have loved that,” he says eventually.
“She’d better,” I reply, lips twitching. “Because I’m not sorry.”
“No,” he sobers. “You shouldn’t be.”
She’s not a ghost between us. She is a part of him. And I don’t fear that.
I’m grateful.
Because without Casey, I wouldn’t have this Zac. My Zac. The one who walked through hell and came out the other side. The one who chose life again—who chose me.
I run my fingertips over the carved letters. Not as an intrusion. As a thank you.
“For giving me him,” I whisper.
Zac hears it. I feel it in his grip.
He leans forward, kisses his fingers, and presses them to her stone.
“Thank you, Case,” he says softly. “For letting me go.”
We rise together, fingers still locked, and move forward. We’re not leaving the past behind, but bringing it with us.